A Quest
by The one called Anarya
Summary: Set after The Return of the King. I'm no good at summaries, so I won't even try to write one. Please please please read. (Remember, a bad summary doesn't necessarily mean a bad story!)
1. The Visitor

Disclaimer(s): I don't own LotR. If I did, one of these things would be true: a) my writing would be WAY better than it is, or b) The Lord of the Rings would be the most hated book in the history of mankind. So, me no ownies anything or anyone here except Terreniol and its inhabitants. Also, I borrowed a few general ideas and concepts from Star-Stallion's writing, but she gave me permission to do that, so no worries. Much thankfulness, Star!  
  
Notes and warnings: 1. I didn't yet finish reading LotR (and due to circumstances I need not burden you with, I might not finish it for quite a while). I only watched the movies, so there might be inconsistencies in my stories. Feel free to point out any mistakes in a review, and I'll either try my best to correct them or take the easy way out and say this is in an AU :) 2. I only started writing LotR fanfiction recently, so I'm not too familiar with the original characters, and they might (and will) be a bit OOC here. 3. I know that none of the original characters are in this chapter, and they probably won't be in the next one either, but bear with me for a while – I have to start the plot, don't I? Oh, and a lot of this fanfic (maybe even as much as half) will be written from a made-up's point of view. 4. I'm trying out a new style of writing, so please please please tell me if I'm any good at it. 5. This is set after the trilogy.  
  
With that in mind, happy reading!

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Chapter 1: The Visitor  
  
A single candle gleamed on the table, giving off more smoke than light. The corners of the large room were lost in shadow, making it seem as though they didn't exist at all, or as though night itself had taken residence there, banishing all brightness from its domain. Darkness seeped inside freely through the sole window. Shelves lined the walls, shelves containing objects that looked frightening and unreal in the dim light – books, boxes, jugs, stones, glass flasks, more boxes, a small cage with an emerald-green lizard inside, more books, and more boxes... Each object, it seemed, yearned for light, and tried to catch as much of it on its surface as possible, like trees fighting for sunlight in a dense forest.  
  
A huge wooden table dominated the room, taking up more than half of it, and leaving only a narrow passage in which one could walk around without touching the shelves. How the table ended up in the room was a mystery – it was too big to fit through the door, and it was cut from a single piece of wood, ruling out the thought that it was brought in in pieces and assembled later. It fit the room so perfectly that one could almost imagine that it stood there long before the house was built, and that the constructors built the room around it, carefully placing each stone in such a position so as not to disturb the wooden giant.  
  
Two doors led out of this room, both nearly invisible in the shadows cast by the shelves around them. One led into the bedroom, a strikingly small room compared to its neighbor. The other led outside.  
  
Sitting before the enormous table, its owner seemed even smaller than he actually was. He sat silently in a tall wooden chair, hunched over a book that lay so close to the candle that it seemed as though it would catch fire at any moment. His old hands ran across the table surface as if they were looking for a comfortable position to rest in, but found none. He cast a shadow that covered the entire wall behind him, the whimsical light of the candle making it sway and tremble. His name was Senerath.  
  
A quiet tapping shattered the silence of the room, making the old man jump and look up from his book. Disturbed at the sudden movement, the flame of the candle flickered and finally went out, the smell of smoke becoming stronger for a few seconds before dissipating into the vastness of the hall.  
  
Senerath cursed quietly and lit another candle before looking around the room. It was silent for a few seconds, then the tapping sound came again, a bit louder this time. Few people came to visit him these days, so it took a while for Senerath to realize that the tapping was actually gentle knocking on the door. Whoever this visitor was, he must have been afraid to make too much noise.  
  
The tapping came again, even louder now. "Impatient, are we," Senerath muttered under his breath. "Come in," he called quietly. "It's not locked."  
  
The door opened, and a man emerged from the shadows, his face distorted by the tricky lighting. Tattered brown clothes shrouded his body, and his grey skin looked golden in the candlelight. At first glance his head, hands and feet seemed disproportionately small, but it was his baggy clothing that gave them that impression. His hair seemed to mock his costume, being a darker shade of brown and looking even dirtier and messier, falling about the sides of his face in tangled uneven curls. His eyes were hidden in shadow, but a faint reflection of the candle burned in either eye, making them look like the empty sockets of a skull with a lantern inside it. His bare feet made no sound as he walked in, bending slightly to avoid the low doorframe.  
  
"Well, if it isn't Weidon," Senerath smirked.  
  
The one called Weidon made a quiet hissing noise that managed to express both his annoyance at the old man's words and his wish that Senerath should talk more softly, but the old man paid him no heed and continued talking. "Yes, indeed, it IS you! Or are my tired eyes deceiving me? Tell me, I seem to have forgotten – was it a week ago that you swore never to set foot in my house again?"  
  
Weidon glared at the old man and silently closed the door behind himself, barely able to resist the urge to slam it shut. He hissed again, his fists clenched at his sides. After a few more moments of silence he spoke for the first time, his voice little more than a whisper. "I have a favor to ask." His tone was unpleasant and emotionless, the pitch a bit too high, the words spoken so quickly and indistinctly that it was difficult to make out what he was saying.  
  
"You have not answered my question," Senerath persisted, chuckling softly. "And why the long face? Have I done something to offend you, my friend?" He put on the most innocent expression he could master, but his glassy grey eyes were so full of venom it was a wonder they didn't burst.  
  
No longer able to contain himself, Weidon leaped forward, crossing the table that separated him from Senerath in two cat-like jumps. He landed on his haunches in front of the old man's book, as if about to dig his fingers into Senerath's bony neck, but murder wasn't his intention. No matter how badly he wanted to kill the old man, Weidon still needed something from him. The point right now was to scare him into listening, and to have some fun in the process.  
  
Snatching up the book Senerath was reading, Weidon got up and strolled along the table casually, relishing the look of pure terror on the grey-haired man's face. He looked completely calm now that he had some sort of revenge. As he jumped down to the floor next to Senerath, his gaze fell on the book he now held in his hands. A satisfied smirk appeared on his face, and the same blank and hasty voice sounded again. "'Secrets of longevity'? Still planning to live forever, are you? Funny how that's the very reason I came here."  
  
Senerath tried to keep some of his dignity by pretending that he hadn't really been scared half to death a few moments ago. He sighed, shaking his head exasperatedly. "Still as hot-headed as ever, I see. What's on your mind?"  
  
Weidon shrugged slightly and sat on the edge of the table. "You are a healer, that's true enough. But that's not the only kind of magic you know, is it? You have bits and pieces of information about many things. Perhaps even the Forbidden Magic." He didn't draw breath once throughout that monologue, and even the small pauses between his sentences seemed rushed, as though he was forcing himself to pause for the benefit of the ears listening to him.  
  
The Forbidden Magic was a special kind of sorcery, one that could bring great destruction if not used wisely. For fear of that kind of power falling into the wrong hands, this magic was forbidden in the land of Terreniol, and everyone found practicing it was executed. Most of the knowledge was lost, but a few books still survived, hidden. In his younger years Senerath got hold of some of them. But now, as he stared at Weidon with his wrinkled hands trembling and his face pale as a ghost's, he wished he hadn't.  
  
Seeing the impact his words had, Weidon smirked again. "Don't worry, I have no intention of giving you away, as long as you help me with something in return." He took one last glance at the book, then put it on the table and leaned close to Senerath's ear, whispering, "I heard about a spell... the transfer of fate..." Standing upright again, he added a bit more loudly, "They say it is possible. And you are the only one I know who might know of such a thing."  
  
Senerath leaned forward in his chair in disbelief. "W-well, it IS possible," he stuttered, "I mean, I could probably do it, but wherever will you get an elf?!"  
  
The younger man shrugged. "I heard there was one in Minas Tirith. The king of Gondor, in fact. These are just rumors, but I'm willing to try my luck. I'll arrange everything as best I can."  
  
He almost winced at his own words. "As best I can," his mind echoed. "Poor fool, how will you ever get to the king of any land?" But he managed to keep his doubts to himself, his face still as a mask. "I know you wouldn't do anything for free," he added aloud, "and you know I don't have anything of value. But you wouldn't want anyone to find out you know the Forbidden Magic, do you? And besides, if all goes well..." He half-sighed, half-laughed. "I'll work for you for the rest of your life."  
  
Senerath's eyes narrowed. "You, working for me again? Begging your pardon, I already had enough trouble with you." But just as Weidon opened his mouth to make another threat, the old man smiled and continued speaking. "But I would very much like it if you kept quiet. Bring the elf here, I'll see what I can do. And don't attract too much attention. If anyone finds out and looks for someone to execute, I'll make sure it's you."  
  
Relieved at Senerath's sudden change of heart, Weidon nodded and walked out the door into the cold night air. Now all he had to do was get to Minas Tirith, fool its inhabitants, kidnap its king, get him to Terreniol, and not get killed in the process. How hard could that be?  
  
He smacked himself on the forehead. "How ridiculous..."

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Well? Love it? Hate it? Anything in-between? Please leave a review and tell me! If I get many reviews, chances are, I'll update sooner :) (Unless they are bad reviews, of course...) Oh, just in case: I know that the king of Gondor isn't an elf. That's a mistake on my characters' part, not my own :)


	2. A Sunrise

Disclaimers: see previous chapter.  
  
One more note: thanks VERY much to Dark (not from ff.n) for reading this over, helping me edit it, and generally being a fountain of encouragement and helpfulness ever since we met!  
  
Review replies (or rather reply):  
  
Star-Stallion – Thanks a lot! Don't worry, I won't steal your entire plots! And I'd be honored if you put my fics on your site. ::feels very very proud:: Oh, just so you know: please don't feel obliged to read my stories just because I read yours. If you get tired of them, that's completely OK. I don't want to be forcing you to read this... And one last thing: UPDATE "HEARTS OF STONE"! :)  
  
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Chapter 2: A Sunrise  
  
In Weidon's mind, the next three days were blurred into one impossibly long moment. While it lasted, it seemed as though it would never end, but now as he looked back upon it, it was such a short and insignificant time span. These three days were filled with nothing but endless riding, broken only by an occasional stop to give some rest to the three pairs of legs – two pairs belonging to the horse, and one to the man.  
  
Only two significant events broke the monotony of this time span, both on the third day. The first happened soon after the sunset. Riding through the darkening woods, Weidon caught up to another rider. That rider seemed to be heading in the same direction as Weidon, and he carried a small symbolic staff with the emblem of Terreniol. That meant he was a herald, and he was probably sent to another land with a message to its ruler. Weidon saw this meeting as an opportunity he couldn't miss. Now the rider was a nameless corpse hidden some way off from the road, and all his possessions, including the staff and the now bloodstained letter, were inherited by Weidon. He also took the rider's clothes. They were slightly too big for him, but anything was better than his tatters, especially anything so simple-looking and durable at the same time. But he couldn't bring himself to wear the shoes. Having walked barefoot for as long as he could remember, he felt imprisoned when something weighed his feet down. It was a strange, unpleasant feeling, and a few moments after he tried the shoes on, they were off his feet and flying through the air. One of them got caught in a tree branch, and somehow the idea appealed to Weidon. Before continuing on his way, he picked the pair up again, and threw them upwards until both of them were stuck in the tree branches high above his head like two ludicrous scarecrows.  
  
The second event was less fortunate. As the human rode on through the night, a dim worry started to nag at him, making him feel as though there was a live snake slithering between his ribs. As time went on, the feeling intensified, and in a few hours Weidon understood that worry – it was the suspicion that he had gotten himself lost. He might have taken a wrong turn somewhere, or perhaps he was riding too slowly, but the journey to Minas Tirith should have taken him little more than two days, while he was already traveling for three. But it didn't matter, Weidon assured himself. He would just have to ride on until he got to a town or a village, and ask for directions there.  
  
He kept riding all night when he finally grew tired and got off his horse. The crimson sun was rising behind a wall of trees, making the sky around it a blue cloth soaked with blood. On this background, the low tree branches looked as though they were long, crooked, leaf-fingered hands pressed against a wound.  
  
As Weidon looked up at the sunrise with his brown, hard eyes, dark and expressionless as two round stones, he didn't know that somewhere else, not far away, a pair of grey ones was also locked on the sky. This second pair was so different from the first. These two eyes weren't hard and lacklustre. They were like two miniature seas just before a storm – clear and calm, but ready to sparkle with joy or burn with hatred at any moment. And as Weidon brought both his thoughts and his eyes back down to earth, the two grey seas were still focused on the sun. Then a wave of ripples disturbed their still surface, and a worried expression came over them. The sun was red... Blood has been spilled.  
  
Meanwhile Weidon tied the reins of his horse to a nearby tree and started to gather branches for a small fire. He didn't need its light or warmth. The sun provided plenty of that. He only wanted to look at the flames.  
  
The fire looked surprisingly dull in the bright sunlight, and the man wished he stopped sooner to catch the last few hours of darkness. Then the burning branches would have become a glowing tower, or the cave of a dragon, or the mythical flower that Ailea turned into as she was dying in the flames... Weidon loved hearing that legend when he was a child. He always smiled through his tears as his mother recounted the tale of how the first queen of Terreniol found eternal peace after a lifetime of despair.  
  
But Weidon knew better now. Eternal peace wasn't something humans could wish for. There was no such thing. Besides, a peaceful life wasn't a life at all. It was merely an existence, a dull and tedious waste of time. It was fit only for those who had all the time in the world to waste. Like elves.  
  
Elves. The reason he was here right now.  
  
Weidon found that he wasn't sleepy, even though he was riding for most of the night. He sat down by the fire, his chin in his hands, his mind going over his plans.  
  
He had to get to Minas Tirith – that's step one. This looked like the easiest task to accomplish: even if he really was lost, it was only a matter of time to find his way. Step two – he had to get near the king. When he set out from Terreniol, he thought this would be the most complicated task, but Lady Luck smiled down on him today. Now he had the letter which Ereku, the king of Terreniol, sent to Lodenir, the king of Heketto. Weidon didn't even know where Heketto was, but it didn't matter. When he killed the herald and found the letter, he soaked it in blood of the messenger so that it became impossible to make out what was written on the envelope. When he would deliver it and they would find out that it wasn't addressed to the king of Gondor, he would just pretend that the wrong letter was put into this envelope. It would still get him past the guards. But he didn't know what the letter was about or what kind of person the king of Gondor was, so after delivering the message he would have to improvise. That's three. And four – could Senerath really be trusted?  
  
Weidon pushed that last thought aside. It didn't matter at the moment. He would have time to think about it on the way back to Terreniol, if he was successful. And if he failed, he'd have plenty of time to think while awaiting the noose.  
  
Suddenly his ears picked up the sound of hoofs somewhere down the path he was following. Jumping up, Weidon stomped out the fire, wincing as the embers burned his bare heels. He untied the horse's reins and grabbed his pack, and a moment later he was hidden behind the trees on the side of the road.  
  
A rider on a white horse was riding in the direction of Weidon's hiding place. He wore a forest-green cloak, and his long blond hair streamed after him in the wind.  
  
Weidon smiled. Maybe he could ask this man for directions. But the horse was moving very fast. If Weidon didn't stop it quickly, it would gallop right past him.  
  
Jumping out of his hiding place, he landed in front of the rider. The horse neighed and reared up, nearly trampling over Weidon. He took a quick step back, tripped, and fell to the ground. The rider was barely able to stay in the saddle, gripping the reins tightly and shouting a command to his horse in a language Weidon couldn't understand. After a few seconds, the animal was finally calm enough to stand relatively still.  
  
Weidon felt his heartbeat quicken as all the stupidity of his move caught up to him. Jumping in front of a galloping horse – just the thing to start one's day. Or end it.  
  
Making a mental note to be more careful, he got up from the ground and bowed, opening his mouth to speak. But as he took a closer look at the rider, he froze, his mouth still open. The rider's ears were pointed. 


	3. Greetings

Disclaimers: see previous chapter.  
  
Review replies:  
  
Star-Stallion: You flatter me :) Thanks so much, but please don't advertise this. Thanks a lot and a half though! And it's not like I'm rushing you or anything with "Hearts of Stone"... :)  
  
Astievia: Ah, whoever could this blond elf wearing a green cloak on a white horse be, I wonder?.. Thanks a lot for your review!  
  
Senseii: Thanks a lot! I'm honored. And I tried to make the spacing better, but it doesn't work for some reason. Sorry... Any suggestions on what I can do, save manually putting in empty spaces after each line?  
  
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Chapter 3: Greetings  
  
The red circle of the sun reflected in Legolas's eyes as he looked up at the sky. A red sunrise... There was no reason to assume that the blood that was shed was of someone he knew, but the elf could feel that it concerned him somehow. He mounted Arod and continued down the path he was following for the last few days. A faint worry was growing at the back of his mind, and without even registering it he pressed his horse forward until it was riding at full gallop. His thoughts raced ahead of him, pacing up the seven steps of Minas Tirith and into the throne room of the stronghold.  
  
Legolas had meant to pay a visit to Aragorn for a long time, but fate seemed to enjoy ruining his plans. For over a year various problems kept coming up, and the elf prince had no choice but to attend to matters more immediate than seeing old friends. But now he finally set out to Gondor, praying that the Valar would, for once, grant him an uneventful journey. He was growing tired of endless threats, ambushes and disasters that seemed to follow him ever since the day the Ring was destroyed.  
  
But as the elf rode on, a young man suddenly leapt out of the bushes in front of Arod.  
  
For a few moments all thoughts were driven out of Legolas's head, his mind focused on stopping the panicking horse. When the animal calmed down and he was finally able to look up, he saw the stranger staring up at him in astonishment.  
  
An unnatural quiet passed over the road like a blanket, muffling all sounds until they became hostile murmurs.  
  
And then the human spoke, quietly and monotonously. "Pardon me, sir, for my clumsiness. Might I ask your name?"  
  
Legolas was amazed at how the voice and the eyes of the stranger held only a hint of emotion, while the face showed his surprise so clearly. A sense of foreboding came over him, and somehow he knew that he was facing an enemy, although he couldn't tell what it was that gave him that impression. But his voice betrayed none of his thoughts as he said the single word, "Legolas."  
  
The human made a strange gesture that could either be a fierce nod or a quick bow. "My lord Legolas, I'm lucky to have found you. I have a message..." With that he disappeared into the bushes, and came out again holding a small pack in his right hand, and the reins of a horse in his left.  
  
While he was digging in the pack, Legolas dismounted and studied him closely. The human obviously knew that he was of the royal line. But why would he have a message for Legolas? Wouldn't it be more rational to send the letter to his father?  
  
"You seem to know who I am, but I don't know you," he said slowly.  
  
The human interrupted his search for a moment to smack himself on the forehead. "I am Weidon, my lord, my name is Weidon. I'm a messenger from Terreniol."  
  
What was it that made the elf uneasy? Only his intuition, which, although it couldn't be ignored, couldn't be wholly trusted, either. But as Weidon handed him an envelope, Legolas's distrust found a new focus.  
"Blood?" he asked quietly, looking at the rust-coloured stain on the paper.  
  
Weidon lowered his head in what looked to the whole world like grief, but as he spoke his voice seemed even more empty than before. "Yes, my lord. My companion was carrying the message in his pocket. Suddenly a knife flew out of nowhere and killed him. The letter was stained, but I still had to deliver it."  
  
Legolas ripped the envelope and took the letter out. Its beginning was unreadable because of the blood that seeped through the outer layer of the paper, but most of it was still intelligible.  
  
"...asked for help, but now I fear I cannot do without it," the letter's first readable line said. "Strange creatures have been spotted away to the north of my borders, and none who were sent to investigate came back. What I ask for is an alliance, for if this is as serious a threat as it seems, your land is in as much peril as mine. I beseech you, answer me as soon as you read this." Then followed the seal of Terreniol, glaring off the paper and mocking the bloodstain with its red ink.


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